


The Lover

by Greysgate



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Cyrano and Shakespeare, How to Woo a Linguist, M/M, Romantic Letters, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 04:07:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14845418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greysgate/pseuds/Greysgate
Summary: The best way to court a linguist is with what he loves best.





	The Lover

**Author's Note:**

> This fic makes a nice pairing with my other fic /True North/, though I'm not sure the timelines really mesh.

**_1997_**

Enlightenment came without fanfare, no fireworks or bolts out of the blue.  The Lover had been standing with hands in pockets, waiting for a turn in the conversation, when Daniel Jackson turned slightly and smiled, his eyes crinkling up in pleasure as he glance at the One Who Watched.  That was when it happened, with an innocent look, and suddenly the Lover realized that Daniel was more than just a friend.  

He was the _Beloved_. 

That changed everything, because Daniel Jackson could not be had.  He belonged to another, so the Lover could do nothing but admire from afar. 

But the heart is never content to love in silence.  It must speak, else it will either burst from that which it cannot contain, or wither and die of loss.  The Lover needed an outlet, a way to express those forbidden feelings. 

As often happens, when a need presents itself, a solution appeared.  

A journal came into the Lover’s possession.  It was old and finely crafted; the parchment pages yellowed with age, edged in gold and bound in soft brown leather.  The pages were blank, calling for elegant words to fill its pages, something larger and grander than a simple secret confession.  It called for art to grace its silent heart. 

That would be a challenge, for the Lover knew how to write well enough, but for this quest, ordinary language would not be enough.  The Lover believed love was beauty, and to the Beloved, words were love.  Words were his grand passion. 

The words would have to be stunning, written the in the way lovers once wrote in an era when the words were everything; words that endured and had power; words such as Shakespeare and Rostand would have used. 

For many days the Lover contemplated that empty journal and those secret feelings.  Finally, the Lover purchased an old-fashioned pen, a bottle of ink and a handbook on calligraphy.  Plain, cheap paper and pencil served as a starting point, allowing the lover to compose words of love that would never be read by the Beloved, serving only to relieve the Lover’s aching heart.  Letter after letter was composed, polished and revised until each was perfect, the poetry of impossible love couched in prose long out of fashion, eloquent and romantic.  The journal was kept hidden in a secret place until every page was filled with beautiful, flowing script bearing not the slightest resemblance to the Lover’s handwriting. 

Finally, the journal was locked away at Daniel’s passing, and it was forgotten.  What had once been flaming passion was now grey coals, all but burned out.  The Lover believed there was no point in loving the dead. 

Only Daniel _wasn’t_ dead, and when he returned the Lover knew this was a second chance not to be taken lightly.  It was a gift, a miracle, and where one could happen, another was possible.  The Lover, however, needed a little help from Cupid to find a way into Daniel’s heart.

* * *

**_March 17, 2003_ **

_**Six Years Later** _

The books in Daniel’s office were arranged in a modified Dewey Decimal System.  Interspersed among them were his field journals, specially bound research papers and language or reference studies composed by SGC academics, including himself.  Additionally, there were books collected on other worlds, making this one of the most eclectic and rare libraries on Earth. 

He kept it in order, and was always irritated whenever someone else had been nosing about in his books.  When Jonas left, Daniel had spent most of a day rearranging them to suit himself. 

That was when he’d found the letter. 

It fell out of a book on Ancients’ Latin that he had started writing, and that had been finished during his ascension by others on the SGC staff.  When he’d opened the book, already knowing it would need to be revised, a mysterious parchment fluttered to the floor at his feet.

 

Curious, he picked it up and flipped open the top fold with one finger.  A single word was skillfully drawn across the top of the page in flourished calligraphy:  _Beloved._

He closed the book and slid it back on the shelf just far enough to keep it from falling.  Carefully, with both hands, he unfolded the aged paper, wondering where it had come from, the identity and era of the author and its recipient, and how it had gotten mixed up in his things.  He read a few lines, then strolled over to his desk and sat down to read the rest.  It was signed anonymously, giving no clue to the author’s identity.

 

_Beloved,  
_

_You have stolen that which I thought it impossible for anyone to reach:  my heart of stone.  
_

_Protected as it was in my ivory tower, I foolishly believed it safe and did not keep watch over it.  Only just now have I discovered it missing and seen the velvet glove you left in its place to identify the one who took it.  What a clever thief you are, well knowing that you are beyond the grasp of justice for your crime!  
_

_Hearts are such wayward creatures, and mine would not now return, even if you set it free.  It beats its wings against the gilded cage of your soul and sings to you, but you cannot hear it.  Your gaze is fixed on another, standing distantly on the horizon.  You can only hear her voice calling your name, deaf to the sweetly melancholy tune my heart sings only for you._

_So now I must sit here in my tower all alone, wandering through the empty rooms, isolated and bereft of the hope if its return.  I will stand fast and love you from afar, listening to the distant melody of my Galatean heart, once carved of stone and lifeless, now quivering flesh and pulsing blood.  You, my Pygmalion, have brought to life that which was never meant to move.  You have given me a miracle, yet you are blissfully unaware of it.  
_

_I shall leave you in your ignorance, because I already know you can never be mine.  You will never read this letter or see the “Wanted” poster hanging where my stone heart once lay, for you belong to another.  Still, even this shall not change what I have become: yours.  
_

_The Lover_

 

By the third read, he had the eerie feeling that the letter was meant for _him_ , that it was not the antique it had first appeared, and he had no clue who had written it.  The letters were drawn with careful precision, elegantly embellished, beautiful in every detail, and the words – the text was as breathtaking as the art with which it had been drawn. 

Someone had written him a love letter and slipped it inside one of his books for him to find.  It might have been there for years before he discovered it.  He turned his curious gaze back to the shelves in wonder.  Where there was one, there might be others. 

He rose, tucked the letter inside his briefing folder, and went back to the bookshelves.  He started at the top, moving from book to book, opening each one and fanning the pages to see if any more letters might be tucked away in there.  He hadn’t made it very far when he realized the enormity of the task he’d set for himself, and decided it would wait.  There was a briefing to prepare for, and he didn’t have time for a distraction like this. 

With a heavy sigh, he retrieved the reference book and returned to his desk and the translation task at hand.  Hours later, he put the book back on the shelf, packed up his things and headed for the briefing room, the letter still weighing on his mind.  For a change, he was first at the table and pulled open his folder, taking a moment to look at the letter once more. 

Sam hurried into the room and put her things down on the table to his left.  Breathless, she sat down in the chair and glanced over at him as he was folding the parchment up.  “Hey, what’s that?” she asked, leaning over for a closer look. 

“Oh, nothing,” said Daniel, hurrying to tuck it back into the briefing folder.  He glanced at Sam and wondered…  But then, that would just be _weird_ , if Sam had penned the letter.  It didn’t sound like her, either.  Sam was a scientist and used words to communicate efficiently.  There wasn’t a drop of art in her conversation or reports, just business, straight to the point.  He doubted Sam would be capable of writing anything like that letter, and mentally crossed her off his list. 

That made him realize he’d been creating a list in the first place.  Distracted now, he flipped to the back page of his notepad and stared at the blank sheet of paper, trying to think of anyone he knew who might have talent enough to craft such prose.  Aside from a couple of people in the academic department, there weren’t a lot of candidates.  Of those five, three were married and the other two were old and SO not his type.  

Which left him with a list of zero. 

He sighed, pondering the subject, widening his mental search for candidates. 

Teal’c appeared, and at his side was the teenage version of Jack O’Neill.  The boy sat down, his gaze going to Sam and then to Daniel.  He looked at that piece of parchment for an instant, then ignored it and glanced away.  

The tiniest smile touched his lips and was gone. 

“What?” asked Daniel. 

“Oh, nothing,” said the boy airily.  

After another moment, General Hammond appeared and the briefing got under way.  They needed to decide what to do with this young man.  And on top of that, they needed to find the original Jack O’Neill – or discover what had peeled back the clock for him. 

Daniel’s mind returned to the problems at hand and he forgot about the letter, shuffling it to the back as more papers were slipped in on top of it.

* * *

_**Six Days Later** _

The next letter came in the mail.  It was folded into an innocent, ordinary envelope, giving no clue to what lay inside.  The front was addressed with a printed label that could have come from a computer.  That also gave Daniel no clues, and the postmark was Colorado Springs.  

_Big surprise, there._

Daniel opened the letter with a stack of bills, slitting the top with a well-sharpened letter-opener.  Not until he had the envelope tossed aside in the trash did he realize he’d received another letter from The Lover. 

Everything else was immediately put on hold.  He carefully unfolded the parchment and began to read.

 

_Beloved,  
_

_You laughed today.  It is too rare a thing upon your lips, an historical event, for yours has been a life of tragedy and great loss.  A lesser man would have grown hard and bitter for what you have endured, but you are not a lesser man.  You have accepted the grief dealt you and used it to become more compassionate.  I am in awe of your gentleness, for I know its source is your boundless strength.  
_

_I often wonder if you are unbreakable at your core.  
_

_Would that you had more occasions for laughter, and to enjoy that lightness of being.  
_

_The Lover_

He felt warm inside, and found himself smiling at the brief but eloquent praise.  The words were beautiful, scribed with great care.  He concentrated on the recent past, trying to remember when he had laughed recently, and couldn’t recall the last time he’d done it.  That was depressing. 

Then again, there was no guarantee when this letter had been written, or even if it were truly intended for him or some antique meant only to pique his curiosity.  It felt personal, as if the writer knew him, but Daniel didn’t know anyone capable of writing like this.  The author of this letter and the one before it had talent with the English language and an appreciation for the beauty of words.  

Daniel picked the sentence structure apart.  That phrase, “an historical event” was put the way an English writer would phrase it.  Americans wouldn’t use “an” in front of “historical;” that was a British rule of grammar.  There were Britons in the SGC, working as part of the international oversight committee’s fingers into the organization.  There were British scientists, scholars and technicians as well, but he didn’t really know any of them.  He’d worked with a handful as part of the academic branch that handled research.  One of the SG teams even had a British anthropologist-cum-archaeo-linguist as a member, but Daniel wasn’t really that friendly with him. 

That notion, however, made Daniel’s musings screech to an abrupt halt.  

_What if the writer were male?_

He had just _assumed_ the author was female.  The odds of that were on the low side, since the vast majority of the population at the SGC was male.  Since the Hathor incident, General Hammond had gone out of his way to shore up the female population in the ranks, but qualified candidates were few.  Not many women – especially civilian scientists – were interested in going into combat situations to further humanity’s knowledge base.  

Which mean the odds were high that his secret lover was another _man_. 

Daniel put the letter away, disturbed now by the fact that some guy on the base had the hots for him.  He wasn’t gay; had never even looked at another man with sexual thoughts.  He’d keep his eyes open and see if he could determine who was watching him.  If he found out, maybe he’d take action to have the man removed from the program.  Daniel didn’t particularly want to be the object of a man’s obsession. 

That was just creepy. 

He turned back to his stack of bills and put the letter out of his mind. 

* * *

_**Three Weeks Later** _

Daniel sat down at his desk, his soul in tatters.  Physically, he was feeling much better now, the severe pain in his head fading to tolerable levels.  He’d watched the footage from the surveillance cameras and seen what everyone else had when the alien consciousnesses had been downloaded into his brain.  He’d seen how Jack fought for him, raging and threatening the one called Martice, demanding that he get the hell out of Daniel’s mind. 

In the end, it had been Pharrin who had volunteered to carry the minds of his sovereign and the others, and Daniel had been freed. 

The experience had been devastating. 

Doctor Fraiser had recommended time off, relaxation and absolutely no work for a week.  So now Daniel was working on recovery, waffling between despair and relief touched with rage, grief and confusion.  He wasn’t himself and needed some respite, something to calm him down. 

He turned off his phone and went through his bills, writing checks for some, paying others online.  When that was done and the receipts duly filed in their proper places, he went to his library to look for a book to read.  Nothing caught his fancy, so from there he went into town for a drive to clear his head and ended up parked outside a craft store. 

Wandering inside, he strolled to the art section and found himself staring at a starter kit for oil painting.  There were a dozen tubes of color plus a large tube of white paint, linseed oil and basic brushes, along with a palette with removable, disposable pages, a palette knife and turpentine for cleaning the tools.  He picked up the kit and wandered over to the paintbrush bin, selected a handful more ranging in size from a delicate, fine-tipped line brush to a wide, silky fan-shaped brush.  

He looked through the cardboard-backed canvases and turned his nose up at them, deciding they were too modern and ugly.  Beside those were pre-stretched canvases, already mounted on wood frames.  He chose one of those and an easel, big and sturdy, made of dark-stained wood.  On the next aisle were other items he’d need, and he gathered everything into a cart he’d fetched from the front of the store when his arms started getting too full. 

Though he hadn’t painted since college, he still remembered how to mix the colors and clean up after himself, though he wasn’t taking this up again because he was any good as an artist. In his early career, art had been a necessary tool that everyone had to learn. Now, it was an exercise in active meditation, something he could do to relax his mind and help him regain his inner equilibrium.  He’d always enjoyed painting, and this would be a nice hobby for downtime. 

He paid for his purchases and returned home, his mind turning toward the choice of subject matter.  A still life could be arranged on a table and left there.  A sunset could be painted from a photograph, forever held in place for his eye.  There were numerous objects in his house that could be reproduced as paintings that were themselves beautiful works of art – fragments of pottery, tablets, statuary and instruments of forgotten ages, inscribed with ancient texts or stylized designs.  His choices were endless. 

Daniel set up the blank canvas on the easel in his office, prepared the surface for painting with a base coat, and then sat down with a sketchpad and charcoal to plan out the composition of his painting.  He wandered through his house, looking at item after item, but nothing struck his fancy, pulled him into it long enough to solidify in his mind as the finished artwork. 

He made himself a glass of tea with lemonade and went out onto his patio to sit in the sun.  He reclined on a lawn chair and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.  The image that kept coming to mind wasn’t one he expected. 

The fiery eyes of Jack O’Neill kept returning, staring into his soul, beckoning.  

Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the thought of Jack as his subject matter.  His thoughts drifted to other memories of Jack – stiff and straight in his Class A’s, goofing around with whatever toy was handy in his BDUs, kicked back with a beer in his hand at home, pondering over a chess board.  He thought of Jack as a figure study and memories of him in the base showers came easily to mind.  Jack had a magnificent physique for a man his age, still hard in all the right places, just starting to show a slight middle-aged spread about his hips.  

Those thoughts surprised Daniel, because he hadn’t been aware that he’d ever studied Jack in such detail, yet there they were, down to the last shadowed ridge of muscle and white-puckered scar.  Jack was beautiful in an entirely masculine way, and Daniel decided he’d make a good model.  No one had to know.  In fact, no one would ever see the painting.  It was just for therapy, anyway, and once he’d gotten it out of his system, Daniel could move on to other things. 

He fetched his sketchpad from the office and began to work on a pose, drawing in the basic shapes of the body, experimenting with different attitudes until he had what he wanted.  On a clean sheet of paper, he re-drew the sketch, then began to fill in the fine details until he was satisfied with the composition.  Jack would be nude, seen from the back, his head turned to one side, revealing his face in profile.  In his left hand he’d be holding a glass of red wine, and in his right a white rose, its petals stroking along his thigh. 

There was something sexy about the drawing, and Daniel felt a slight arousal as he studied it.  The human form was beautiful, regardless of whether the subject was male or female.  Daniel had always loved ancient art that celebrated the nude figure, and this would be just another of those. 

Perfectly harmless, in and of itself. 

He returned to his office and placed the drawing beside the prepared canvas.  It would be a day or so before it would be dry enough to begin, and until then, he could sleep late, indulge his appetite and take in a movie or two.  He looked forward to the rest, and headed into the kitchen to start dinner.

* * *

**_June 23, 2003_ **

**_The Next Afternoon_**

Daniel began to transfer the sketch to the canvas, using an ancient method called pouncing.  He poked holes in the drawing along the lines he wanted to use, then taped the drawing to the canvas.  He laid the canvas down flat and took a small bag of graphite powder in hand, patting it on the drawing until it was dark with the dust.  He smoothed his fingers over the paper, went to wash his hands and then carefully peeled the tape away.  

The surface of the canvas was peppered with little black dots from where the graphite powder had gone into the holes.  Making sure his hand was clean, Daniel took a pencil and began to connect the dots, referring back to his drawing – the excess dust having been dumped into a trash can – for the fine details.  In under an hour, he had his sketch transferred and the canvas ready to paint. 

The postman’s arrival signaled time for a break, and Daniel ambled out to collect the mail, carried it into the kitchen and laid it on the counter while he poured himself a glass of lemonade tea.  Carrying both back to the office, he put the mail on the desk and set his glass on a nearby table.  He sorted the envelopes into three piles – bills, junk and other.  The last envelope in his hand was another of the anonymous letters, since the label on it was printed exactly the same way as the previous one had been, same font and spacing.  Papyrus, he thought the font was called.  Sort of Egyptian-looking, but not exactly. 

He opened the letter, sat down at his desk, and began to read.

_Beloved,  
_

_You will never know what a coward I am.  Though I know you are now free to pursue whatever love you wish, still I remain silent, hidden in plain sight, unable to confess to you the depth of my affection.  I lie awake at night, dreaming of a stolen kiss.  I dare not dream of more, contenting myself with this rosy dot on the ‘i’ of loving – a single kiss for which I would lay down my very life._

_My heart pounds as I think of it – the softness of your lips brushing against mine, a blushing moment of willing affection.  
_

_Ah, Beloved!!  I shall never know this sweetness, save as a sacred dream.  
_

_Ever yours,  
_

_The Lover_

This gave him an approximate timeline on the letters.  The first had been written to him while he was still married to Sha’uri, still searching for her.  This one was from the period immediately following her death.   That was quite a while for anyone to be carrying a torch, he thought.  

So why send the letters now?  What had changed in The Lover’s life that would prompt him – or her, though Daniel thought it less likely that the writer might be a woman – to begin sending the letters to him? 

There had to be a reason why they were coming to him _now_.  

He re-read the text, and this time a quote leaped out at him from the original wording.  That ‘rosy dot’ line was straight out of _Cyrano de Bergerac_ , by Edmund Rostand, which marked the writer as a romantic, though the phrasing of all three letters was also incredibly poetic and rich.  The writer had a way with words that made these missives a pure pleasure to read. 

Daniel thought about the fact that someone out there was in love with him, and that it was probably another man.  He’d been put off by that idea at first, but now that he’d had a chance to get used to the idea, it might not matter at all.  He let his mind rove over the possible candidates on his mental list, picturing them naked, adoring him with his eyes. 

Teal’c, he decided.  He could definitely kiss Teal’c. 

Bill Lee, on the other hand, would be top of the ‘ _no, thanks’_ pile.  Bill was a nice enough guy and funny, but he just didn’t inspire romantic fantasies.  Not Daniel’s type, he supposed, when it came to men. 

That made him take the idea a little deeper.  What about having _sex_ with Teal’c?  He laughed at himself for such thoughts.  Oh, he could do Teal’c, all right, but the idea of it going the other way made his ass clench involuntarily.  

Daniel got up and put the letter away, returning to stand before the unpainted canvas.   He studied it, seeing the finished painting already in his mind.  There was a subtle sexual element to a nude, and even though Daniel had intended it only to be a character study in oils, he recognized the attraction as he stared at the canvas.  With one fingertip, he traced the curve of one butt cheek, imagining how it would feel to run his hand along that smooth, firm skin.  

He took in a startled breath as a flash of heat went through his groin and his dick started to swell.  

Staring at the canvas, the fantasy moved through his mind at light speed.  _Himself and Jack, kissing, groping each other, thrusting into each other in every conceivable position and combination.  Daniel’s hand moved down to the bulge in his jeans, cupping his hot, swollen cock reaching down the leg of his pants._

“Jesus!” he swore softly.  He took himself off to the bathroom, undressed and relieved the ache in his groin while the hot water streamed down on his body in the shower.  Fantasies of Jack sucking his cock brought him off with a groan of satisfaction, and when he was done, he dried off and re-dressed, taking himself back to the office for another look at the unpainted canvas. 

He pulled out the letters again and re-read them, looking for some sign of Jack in the wording, but there was none.  He knew Jack had a degree in English along with one in aerospace engineering, so he supposed it _might_ be possible they were from Jack – just not probable or even _likely_.  He’d read enough of Jack’s mission reports over the years to know Jack could write well – even eloquently, on occasion – but Jack was not a romantic.  He wasn’t a poet. 

And he was the _poster boy_ of heterosexuality. 

So it _couldn’t_ be Jack.  

Daniel decided he didn’t want to know who The Lover was.  He’d just imagine in the privacy of his mind that Jack was the man behind the pen, and let those fantasies keep him company.  It was as close as he was going to get to finding love again. 

He put the letters safely away, and returned to the canvas. 

Only now, he couldn’t look at that image of Jack without a sexual context, so he painted over the sketch on the canvas with a second base coat.  He went off to the patio with his sketch pad to try out other ideas for composition.  What he ended up with was a portrait of Jack looking straight into his eyes, his expression neutral.  He dressed Jack in a black turtleneck and threw a strong light onto the right side of his face, casting the left in shadow.  Jack’s right hand was raised, holding the hilt of a French swept-hilt rapier, like the miniature letter opener on his desk, the blade balanced on the crest of Jack’s right shoulder.  

Jack as a fencer was a beautiful, romantic image.  It was a painting Daniel could hang in full view in his house without the sexual overtones of the nude.  He thought he might do a series, painting Sam and Teal’c in similar exotic poses, thus paying tribute to the entire team.  

It wasn’t until he’d transferred the sketch onto the canvas and started painting that he realized the underlying message he’d given himself: he was painting _Jack as Cyrano_ , legendary swordsman and poet, a man of blazing wit and the soul of a romantic.  

Daniel grinned and shook his head.  _Well, that’s a lovely piece of irony,_ he decided.  He squeezed a large dollop of Payne’s grey onto the disposable palette, chose a brush and began to paint the color straight onto the canvas, laying on the background color first.  By the time he’d finished for the day, he had the whole canvas covered in color.  He’d work in the details as he went, going back over the base with layer after layer of color, highlight and shadow until he had it completed.  If he worked at nothing else for the rest of the week, he might have enough time to get it almost done.

* * *

 

  _ **July 7, 2003**_

_**Two Weeks Later** _

With Jack laid up with a wounded arm, the team was once more on stand-down.  Daniel was pleased with his success under Colonel Edwards, negotiating the treaty with the Unas on that mining planet.  Jack’s faith in Daniel’s ability had made it all possible, and he knew that many lives had been saved on both sides by his bargaining. 

Daniel just wanted to rest, not do anything for a couple of days.  That brought him back to his painting, still unfinished by his standards.  Little details begged for attention, and he worked on them until he was satisfied with his progress.  

He took a break near midnight, bone-weary and foggy-brained.  He poured himself a glass of wine and returned to his office for one more look at the painting, then sat down at the desk to sort his mail.  He’d been gone for a while and had bills that needed paying, but that would wait for tomorrow.  He went through the stack of envelopes, making three neat piles as he always did. 

Another letter from his secret admirer brought the sorting to a halt.  Daniel laid the letter in his lap, eager now to see if there might be any more, but there weren’t.  Once he’d sorted the last of his mail into piles, Daniel opened the envelope and pulled the neatly folded parchment out.  This one was longer than the last two, and Daniel licked his lips in anticipation as he began to read.  This time, he heard Jack’s voice in his head, reading the words aloud to him.

_Beloved,  
_

_In the silence of deepest night, my heart cries out to you.  Passion burns me, leaving me weak and defenseless.  I dream – oh, how I dream! – and you are in my arms, naked, willing, eager for my touch.  You look upon me and find me pleasing.  You reach for me, my name upon your lips like a holy kiss.  I travel the landscape of your skin, mapping my journey with ley-lines of kisses._

_Ah, Beloved, how I tremble when you are near, and still you do not see.  I would write your name in stars across the sky, aglow against the inky black vault for all to see, if I believed for a moment that you could be mine.  
_

_You cannot see me, though you look into my eyes every day and greet me with the warmth of your friendship.  You have felt nothing in my rare embraces save the gentle affection of a friend.  You do not suspect that you are worshipped, adored, the one bright luminary body in my darkness that keeps me alive with your nourishing care.  You cannot feel my passion, my desire, for I keep them well hidden, save in my dreams.  
_

_I shall hold you carefully apart from me, treasured and pure.  I shall feast my gaze upon your least gesture and die every day in your eyes, loving you in secret.  I shall dream that, in those private moments when you touch yourself, it is my hand upon you, loving you.  Perhaps then you will feel less alone in the universe, sailing a river of stars with your faithful Lover at your side.  I shall bear witness to your extraordinary life, my Beloved, for it casts a shining glory upon mine.  
_

_The Lover_

Daniel considered this tantalizing new bit of information.  The Lover _was_ someone Daniel knew, someone he saw often.  The letter mentioned the fact that The Lover had embraced Daniel on occasion, and that narrowed down the list considerably.  Daniel tended to avoid touching other people.  He didn’t usually let them get close to him emotionally or physically.  Still, when he began to count, there were more than he’d expected on that list.  He’d grown close to a number of people at the SGC over the years, and periodically, when grief had been a common bond, he’d hugged more than a dozen people on the base.  

Looking at the list he’d written on the back of the envelope, Daniel felt a tide of loneliness wash over him.  No other human being had touched him in anything but clinical fashion for years.  He thought about kissing, remembered how it had felt when he’d kissed his wife, and how much he missed her.  He ached to be touched again, to feel someone’s hand caress his face, arms around him to bring him close, a solid body pressed to his to warm him. 

He started to put the letter away with the others, but stopped instead, staring at it in his hand. 

He needed to respond, but he didn’t know who to address.  With shaking hands, Daniel pulled a sheet of his expensive linen stationery from the desk drawer, searched for his old-fashioned fountain pen and checked the ink cartridge.  It took a couple of strokes on the back of the envelope to get the ink flowing, but when it was ready, he carefully lettered each line of response.

 

_To my Lover,  
_

_Tell me who you are, I beg you!  Do not fear my response.  I would know the face behind the pen and offer you what comfort I can.  Please do not assume I will not reciprocate your affection.  I have been too long alone and need the comfort of another’s arms—_

Daniel frowned at the words he’d written.  “That sounds pretty desperate,” he said aloud.  He capped the pen, wadded up the sheet of stationery and threw it in the trash.  “Then again,” he commented as he rose, “I _am_ pretty desperate, at this point in my life.  I’m also talking to myself, which can’t be a good sign.” 

With a sigh, he lifted his wine glass and drained it, carried it to the kitchen and took himself off to bed.  He tried to sleep, but that letter haunted him, bringing his hand to his sleeping cock, imagining it was Jack’s.  How he wanted The Lover to be Jack, but that was just a sad fantasy.  His cock didn’t waken and with another weary, defeated sigh, Daniel rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.  If he couldn’t sleep, he could at least rest, while thoughts of luminous brown eyes looking at him with love filled his mind.

* * *

_**The Next Day** _

Daniel had forgotten about the painting hanging over his mantel.  A portrait of Sam was already in progress, sketched out and ready to be transferred to the blank canvas sitting on the easel in his office, and he hadn’t given any thought to possible reactions to his work.  He realized later that he should’ve said something to the team about them. 

They’d made a date to cook out for his birthday, and Daniel had grown so used to seeing the portrait of Jack that he’d forgotten to tell them he’d gone back to art therapy. 

All three of his teammates stood in his living room, staring at it. 

All three of them turned to look at him in unison, questions in their eyes. 

“I didn’t tell you guys I was painting again?” he asked, already knowing the answer.  “I used to do it in college.  Um.  Be right back.” 

He fled to the office, snatching up the drawing of Sam and hurrying back to his guests.  “I’m planning to do one of each of you.” 

“I didn’t know you were an artist, Daniel,” Sam said admiringly, staring at the drawing now in her hands.  “These are beautiful!” 

Daniel shrugged modestly.  “I needed a relaxing hobby,” he explained, unsure how to respond to her praise.  He glanced at Teal’c, who remained silent, approval in his eyes.  “I’m planning to paint you in meditation, maybe with a Japanese temple in the background.  Something Earth-oriented.”  He smiled, and was pleased to see his friend smile back. 

Then he risked a glance at Jack, who was still staring at the painting. 

“What do you think, Jack?” asked Daniel tentatively.  

Jack just nodded.  When he looked Daniel’s way, there was something vulnerable in the chocolate depths, flickering for an instant and then gone, suddenly hidden by a goofy smile.  “Which one am I?” 

Daniel frowned.  “Which one of what?” 

“The Musketeers,” Jack returned, gesturing at the painting with his beer bottle.  “Athos, Porthos or Aramis?  You’re D’Artagnan.  That one’s easy.” 

With a chuckle, Daniel considered that idea. 

It started a happy argument, with each of them picking out their favorite Musketeer, and reasoning why they should or should not be this or that one of the fictional characters.  In the end, no decision was reached and Daniel announced the idea was moot because the other portraits wouldn’t be in the same theme, and Jack’s wasn’t a Musketeer persona, anyway.  The idea continued to turn in Daniel’s head, and he decided to play with the image of his team as the four famous characters, or possibly as Dorothy and Company from L. Frank Baum’s _Wizard of Oz_ , since Jack was so keen on comparing them to that group. 

Either of those ideas would make fun subjects for future paintings, so he tucked the thoughts away for future development, and ushered his guests outside to get on with the cookout, picturing them in uniforms decorated with large king’s crosses or in fanciful fairy-tale personas. 

That, he thought, would be wonderful fun, a touch of whimsy for his home with personal meaning for his friends. 

Providing, of course, that time permitted him his hobby.

* * *

 

_**Six Months Later** _

Daniel stared at the envelope with red-rimmed eyes.  It had been a month since he’d gotten a letter from his mysterious lover, and now, at the worst possible time, here was another.  He wasn’t in the mood for sexy innuendo and fruitless desire.  He didn’t want to be romanced.  Janet Fraiser was dead and he was in mourning. 

Still, when sleep refused to come, the thought of that unopened envelope called to him.  

He rose at two AM and padded barefoot to his office.  Taking a seat in his desk chair, he switched on the lamp and made a neat slit in the top of the envelope with the sword-shaped letter opener.  He withdrew the gold-edged parchment and let his tired eyes roam over the beautifully drawn text.  There was a stain toward the bottom where the paper had gotten wet.  The water-stain was perfectly round, as if a single drop had fallen onto the page. 

A teardrop, he guessed.

_Immortal Beloved,  
_

_Tonight I have seen your bright soul, free of its mortal clay.  You are gone now, and you have taken my heart with you.  I am cold and empty, utterly alone.  No more shall I touch you or see the beauty of your rare smiles.  Never again shall I tend you when you are ill or injured, offering what comfort I can.  You are gone, risen to some enlightened plane where I cannot follow.  I must grieve, yet I cannot.  There is only dead emptiness inside me – or perhaps my soul has gone numb, so overwhelmed with the pain of your loss that it is too great to bear.  
_

_I do not know.  
_

_I am certain only that my soul has died with you this night.  There will be no recovery after this loss; only a forward progression through time until it is my moment to die.  Tonight I had the opportunity to confess to you, to reveal in your last moments how deeply you are loved, and I was a coward yet again.  I hinted at vague admiration instead, a pale shadow of what you have inspired in me these many years.  Would that I had kissed you instead, while you still had lips I could touch.  Then you would have known how deeply you are loved.  Now it is too late.  You are gone, and I am alone, yet you will always be with me, immortal in my memories, beloved as long as I draw breath.  
_

_The Lover_

Daniel’s mouth went dry.  He re-read that line about admiration and knew _instantly_ who The Lover was.  There was no doubt now, and he rose with trembling hands, collecting each of the letters from their storage place, unfolding them in order with the last on the bottom, the first on top.   

He hurried to his bedroom and pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and summer sandals.   He grabbed his keys, wallet, the stack of letters and locked up his house.  He backed his battered old red Jeep into the street and took off as fast as the winding street would allow, straight for Jack’s house. 

He let himself inside with his spare key – everyone on the team had a key to each other’s homes – and stood for a moment in the darkened foyer, listening to hear if Jack had awakened.  He was injured and on pain medication, so he might be completely out of it.  Daniel didn’t want to take any chances on that, knowing that Jack might well kill him in the dark if he didn’t know the intruder’s identity, so he called out softly. 

“Jack?” 

There was no answer. 

Daniel started down the hallway toward Jack’s bedroom, the letters in his left hand.  He made it all the way to the bedroom, but when he arrived, the bed was empty and mussed, as if someone had just left it.  Daniel called out again, louder this time, because he was certain Jack was awake now.  In fact, he probably had a gun pointed at him. 

“It’s Daniel,” he called.  “Don’t shoot me.” 

A soft metallic click was followed by an irritated sigh.  Jack rose from behind the bed, pistol in hand, thumbing the safety back into place.  “What the hell are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” he demanded crossly, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his free hand. 

“Turning on the lights,” Daniel warned, reaching for the switch. 

Jack flung up a hand to shield his eyes, blinking and grimacing until they adjusted.  When he could see, he glanced at Daniel’s face and then his eyes were drawn to the sheets of parchment in Daniel’s grip.  His eyes widened.  He looked surprised. 

“Where the hell did you get that?” he demanded. 

“Someone’s been sending them to me,” Daniel told him.  “I’ve been getting them in the mail, one every few weeks.  Just got the last one in today’s mail, but I didn’t read it till just now.”   

He lowered the papers when Jack didn’t take them.  “I wasn’t in the mood when I got home today.”  He swallowed hard, eyes misting, and blinked to clear them.  “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to read it anyway.  Take my mind off things.” 

“How long?” asked Jack, his gaze dropping to the floor. 

“How long what?  How long have I been getting them?” 

Jack nodded. “When did you get the first one?”  He looked at the floor, at his bare feet.  Almost as an afterthought he leaned toward the nightstand and put the pistol back into the drawer. 

Daniel thought back.  “I found the first one in my office, stuck in a book of Ancient’s Latin,” he thought back, trying to frame the time correctly, by events rather than a calendar date.  “Right around the time we were dealing with your clone.” 

The light bulb went on over both their heads at the same time. 

“The little sonovabitch!” Jack growled.  “He’s the _only_ other person who knew where that journal was.” 

“Journal?” asked Daniel.  He sat down on the bed beside Jack and took a closer look at the papers.  He noticed the left edge of the pages were lacking the gold trim the other three sides had, from where the paper had been bound into the journal and then carefully cut away from the binding.   

The clone had apparently decided to play Cupid, and sent the journal pages to Daniel as a way to get things started between them. 

“You weren’t meant to see those,” Jack said quietly.  “Nobody was.”  He sighed and stood up, slowly pacing the bedroom floor.  

That explained a great deal.  It also made the words all the more precious, because they were truly heart-felt confessions, written without reservation.  They were an open door straight into the heart of an incurable romantic. Daniel’s heart fluttered. 

“I shoulda burned the damned journal,” Jack growled. “Shouldn’t have written it in the first place.” 

“No!”  Daniel leaped up, holding the pages to his chest, one hand splayed over the back protectively.  “Jack, these are too beautiful to destroy.” 

Jack’s eyes were guilty, embarrassed.  He looked away, turned his back to his friend.  His hand worried at the back of his neck. 

A rush of emotion washed over Daniel.  Jack had opened his heart to Daniel in those letters, and Daniel hadn’t given him a really clear indication of how he felt about them.  Jack wasn’t really a man of words.  He was a man of action.  That was what he understood best. 

Daniel set the letters on the foot of the bed and stood up.  He walked over to Jack, got in front of him and put his hands on Jack’s shoulders to make him look up.  The moment he did, Daniel’s gaze went straight to Jack’s mouth.  He’d never kissed another man before, wasn’t sure how it would feel, if it would be different at all, or just like kissing a woman.   

Hesitantly, he leaned in, tilting his head to get the right angle, then moving closer until he could feel Jack’s warm breath against his lips.  Jack didn’t move.  Daniel’s hand slipped up to the back of Jack’s head, cradling it in his palm.  Daniel moved his other hand to Jack’s cheek, hovering so close, so far away, waiting for permission. 

Jack came the rest of the way on his own, his lips brushing against Daniel’s, stroking back again, teasing them apart.   

“Sweet,” groaned Jack breathlessly against his mouth.  “Oh, Jesus, I knew it.” 

“Jack,” Daniel whispered, opening up to him completely.   

What followed was a blur of delirious joy.   

There was kissing, soul-deep mingling of mouths and tongues.  Hands groped and grappled.  They wrestled as they clung to each other, stumbling toward the bed, breaking apart just as they reached it, eyes only for each other.  Clothing went flying and parchments were scattered onto the floor.  Bodies strained together, the movements punctuated with grunts and groans of pleasure and surrender.  There were tears and whispered words, quotations from the letters, spoken in two voices.  The bed creaked and sang and shuddered against the wall until the men on it finally lay still, dripping with sweat, gasping for breath.  Limbs were entwined to bind them together in a steaming, sated heap until they rolled onto their sides, still tangled together, and opened their eyes to regard one another in the wake of their first night as lovers. 

“Beloved,” whispered Jack with a sleepy smile. 

“My lover,” Daniel responded happily.  “Who’d have thought you were such a sap?” 

“Yeah, well, you liked the sappiness,” Jack returned with a low chuckle.  “I guess the clone knew what he was doing, when he sent those pages off to you.  I’d never have thought in a million years you’d fall for something like that, or I’d have sent ‘em myself.” 

“It _did_ kinda creep me out at first,” Daniel admitted, “but you won me over.  I’m a sucker for beautiful words, Jack.  You had to know that.” 

His silver head nodded against the pillow.  “On some level, I s’pose I did.  That’s why I wrote ‘em, after all.  I just never meant for you to, you know, actually _see_ ‘em.  I figured you’d know who wrote ‘em right off the bat.” 

“Didn’t figure it out till I got the last letter,” he admitted.  Daniel smiled, filled with love for this man, this complicated, complex, multi-faceted man whom he realized he barely knew.  “I want to know you, Jack.  Keep writing to me.  Tell me all the things you’d never be able to say to anyone else, and I’ll do the same for you.  Now that I know my Lover’s address, I can send you the letters _I_ wanted to write.”  He sighed, running his thumb along the curve of Jack’s lower lip.  “I can’t promise mine will be as beautiful as yours, but I’ll try.” 

“Wanna borrow my calligraphy book?” asked Jack.  “It’s harder than it looks.  If you’re not careful, you misspell words because you’re concentrating so hard on the lettering that you forget what comes next.  Then you have to start over on a new page.” 

“Yeah, that’d be nice.  Maybe you can teach me.” “There’s not a lot I _can_ teach you, Doctor Genius, so, yeah.  I’ll be happy to.”  Jack’s smile faded.  His expression grew serious.  “So, what are we gonna do about _us_ , Beloved?” 

“What do you mean?  I thought we just _did_ it.  Took the first step, I mean.  There’s a lot more we can do.” “I wasn’t talking about the sex.”  Jack frowned.  “Well, I was.  That’s part of it, but I mean, you know, our jobs and all.” 

“We’ll figure that out as we go along,” Daniel told him with a note of happy certainty.  “The most important thing is not to lose each other.  We came a long way to get where we are, and I think we deserve a little happiness.  Don’t you?”

 Jack nodded.  “Yeah.  I do.”  He kissed Daniel’s mouth, the line of his jaw, up under his ear and down his neck. 

Daniel shivered with delight.  “I’m never letting you go, Jack,” he whispered.  “Just so you know that up front.” “Sweet,” murmured Jack against the hollow of Daniel’s throat. 

Had he known Jack O’Neill was capable of such eloquence, Daniel thought, he’d have pounced on him long ago.  He’d been in love with Jack for a long time, but it had taken letters from an unknown stranger to bring that to light.  Tomorrow, he resolved, he’d pay a visit to Jack’s clone to thank him for the letters, just so he’d know his efforts hadn’t been in vain, and he’d advise the younger O’Neill to expand that talent.  Jack had a writer’s heart, and that could take him all sorts of places – even into someone else’s soul. 

Such was the power of words, and why Daniel loved language so passionately.   

Apparently, he and Jack shared that passion, and Daniel intended to give him an outlet for his skill.  He wanted to continue receiving those letters from The Lover, and looked forward to all the secret yearnings that Jack wanted to share with him.  He couldn’t think of anything more beautiful than the glimpses he’d gotten into Jack’s soul, gained through the words he’d so carefully drawn on paper, and this time, it would be true correspondence, going both ways between them. 

For the moment, however, being in Jack’s arms was all he needed.  The rest, as he had said, would wait. 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Back in the day before everyone had a camera in their phone, Archaeology students had training in drawing and painting for use in their journals. The purpose was two-fold: to record the find on the pages of the journal where they kept their notes (just in case any pieces were lost or destroyed during shipping), and to cause the student to truly study every detail of the piece. Drawing enabled that kind of intense study, so I believe Daniel would have some experience with drawing and painting, though he wouldn't use those skills often anymore.
> 
> Before Stargate, my favorite movie was an old French classic, which I loved for the same reason I love writing: the beauty of the words. Daniel and I have that in common.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Jude, even though thanks is far too small a word for all she does for me. BLUSH, Doll.


End file.
